Heart and Soul
by moonlighten
Summary: September 2009: France invites Wales out for dinner at a fancy restaurant. There's definitely some sort of romance in the air, but, unfortunately for Wales, none of it is directed his way. (One-sided Wales/France; background Scotland/France.) Complete. Part 38 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

**24th September, 2009; London, England**

-  
The bottle of wine France orders with their meal makes Wales feel inadequate simply by existing in the same space as it.

The sommelier had nodded with what appears to be approval for France's superlative taste as he ordered it, and when she delivers it to their table, she handles it with the same careful reverence as an ornithologist would show to a rare hen harrier egg.

Whilst she holds out the bottle for France to inspect, Wales peers at the label. Although he doesn't recognise the name of the estate printed there, the understated elegance of its design makes him unaccountably aware of the fact that his hair is being particularly defiant and voluminous this evening, his suit is from Primark, and that he'd dribbled some tea onto his shirt cuff earlier and hadn't managed to get all of the stain out.

When he curls his fingers around the stem of his glass in order to taste the sample the sommelier pours for their approval, his eyes are inexorably drawn towards the serrated edges of his chewed-up nails. He hurriedly gulps down the sample in attempt to distract himself from the embarrassment resulting from that observation.

The wine is rich and smooth, bursting with so many hints and notes of different flavours, Wales cannot hope to even begin to unpick one from another amongst them.

Feeling, though, that the steady weight of France's gaze upon him is begging his input at this juncture, Wales ventures, "Full-bodied."

Frances smiles at him. A faint, mellow smile that looks to be pleased as well as amused. "Indeed," he says quietly, before nodding his approval.

The sommelier fills both of their glasses before gliding away to leave them alone with their menus.

Wales studies his own with the diligence of a student revising for an exam, but enlightenment continues to elude him. The dishes are all far more complex than those served in the sort of dining establishment he usually frequents, and although he's familiar with most of the terms used in their descriptions thanks to Masterchef, lacking practical experience, he can't be sure if that jus will add to that fondant to produce a combination flavoursome enough to justify the hair-raising price listed alongside them.

Eventually, he admits defeat, and tells France, "Why don't you just order for me?" The longer he thinks on that decision, the less it seems like the coward's way out, and more like a compliment. This is a French restaurant, after all, and it would perhaps be a small arrogance to presume he knows better than the nation himself what's best to eat from the selection of his country's cuisine on offer. "I can't choose. It all looks lovely."

France's smile grows, and when their waiter returns to take their order, he rattles it off in such rapid-fire French that Wales' ears cannot keep up. Neither can the waiter's, apparently, as he asks France to repeat himself a couple of times, then slinks away wearing a slightly perplexed expression and very harassed air. Wales suspects the poor lad probably only knows enough of the language to recognise the names of the dishes.

After he leaves, France leans back in his chair, wineglass cupped in hand, and regards Wales steadily across the linen-draped expanse of the table with heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth is still delicately curved, and he seems satisfied with himself, with their current situation, and the world in general.

And as he's watching Wales so closely and so openly, Wales feels free to do the same in return.

In contrast to Wales himself, France seems to have been created to occupy places such as this, a missing puzzle piece that has been slotted into place so neatly that none of the edges show. Under the subdued lighting, his hair gleams a rich gold that beautifully complements the understated opulence of the outrageously expensive restaurant.

His suit has doubtless never even heard Primark mentioned in its vicinity. More than likely, it's never even been near a shop. It looks as though it was probably constructed to France's exact and exacting specifications, adjusted by a personal tailor with a scrupulously trained eye and rock-steady hand, in order to make it nip at his waist and skim his shoulders at just the right angle to enclose France like a second, extremely flattering skin and emphasise all the most pertinent parts of his already well-proportioned physique.

France's smile broadens, suggesting that he's noticed Wales returning his attention, and, flustered, Wales hurriedly casts his gaze downwards and begins fiddling with his cutlery, attempting, with deep, deliberate concentration, to align each piece perfectly with its neighbours.

Many years ago, for Scotland's sake, Wales made the decision to stop being attracted to France. It has never worked particularly well, and the best he's ever been able to manage is to stop actively acknowledging his attraction, and even that itself is a precarious proposition. He certainly shouldn't be indulging in any staring, which inevitably leads, if he doesn't curtail it in time, to thoughts of that year he won't allow himself to remember.

Instead, he stares at the tines of his dessert fork, and asks, "What did you want to talk to me about?" because he's in sore need of the distraction the enquiry offers.

During their lunch earlier that day, France had seemed poised to discuss something of great import with him, judging by his pensive expression throughout, and the way he kept saying Wales' name, low and beseeching, asking a question that he couldn't quite seem to spit out. In fact, he'd ended up not saying much of anything at all, save for some snappish complaints about the bitterness of the coffee he was served, and the dryness of the cake Wales had personally found deliciously moist.

They'd ended up eating in cold, oppressive silence, and Wales had been honestly surprised when France had asked to submit himself to more of the same that evening. It was only later, when he researched the restaurant France suggested they meet at and saw how pricey and exclusive it looked to be, that he realised that France might simply have wanted a little more privacy to discuss whatever it was that was so obviously preying on his mind than a cafe in the middle of the lunch rush provided.

It's just gone seven o'clock, and there are only three other tables occupied on the opposite side of the restaurant to Wales and France's, but apparently it still isn't quite private enough, because France says, "That can wait. I don't like to speak of serious matters over dinner."

"Oh," says Wales, nonplussed and suddenly feeling superfluous. There seems little point to him being there if not to provide an open ear, ready to hear whatever it is France wants to unburden himself from. "What do you like to talk about, then?"

"Anything else," France says. His eyes are glittering now, sparking with what Wales suspects to be silent laughter at his expense. "I just want to enjoy the pleasure of your company, _mon ami_."

Wales is even more puzzled now, but he nods his uncertain acquiescence nonetheless, and resolves to oblige France's ridiculous whims as best he can.  
-

* * *

-  
Wales has been told that he's a good listener, but he's certain he's nothing but a rank amateur when compared to France.

France may be flighty at times, and often easily distracted, but if he chooses to pay an interest, he has a way of making a person feel as though they're not just the only person in the room, but the only person in the entire cosmos worth listening to.

And he'd voiced an interest in Wales' life, which was daunting to start with, to be the recipient of the laser focus France could bring to bear at such times, but soon became flattering, encouraging Wales with his gentle, attentive questions and the warm intent of his gaze to move from halting banalities about the weather to expressing his frustrations with England and sharing his hopes regarding his Senned.

France's eyes never leave his, save for those moments where he has no choice to turn his attentions to his food or their waiter for a while, and the wine proves heady, far stronger than Wales had anticipated, and as his mouth keeps running dry, he also drinks far more than is sensible.

They drain the first bottle by the middle of their main course. The second France orders is down to its dregs by the end of dessert, and Wales finds himself talking and talking and talking about Cerys, because France is the only person of his acquaintance who's ever asked how he's coping since they split up without looking as though he'd much prefer it if Wales didn't actually answer.

At some point - around the time Wales' eyes started to prickle, most likely - France had laid his hand over Wales' on the table, and, when his voice grew hoarse, France had shuffled his chair around the table and touched his shoulder to Wales'; leant a little of his weight against him.

The tips of his index and forefinger are a soft but insistent pressure against Wales' wrist, his breath heated against Wales' cheek. The clean, fresh scent of France's aftershave envelops him, and Wales begins to think very foolish things.

He thinks about that year he has tried so very hard to forget. The memories are dim now, forcefully muddied by his determined neglect, but they've never faded entirely.

He thinks, too, about Scotland, and how England had told him that their brother had insisted that he had finished with France entirely this time. Full stop, never again, finished.

He can't stop thinking about how close they are.

He moves a little closer, angles his head towards France's.

France startles back from Wales, and Wales almost loses his balance, rocking precariously on the edge of his chair before France steadies him with a swift hand on his elbow, which is then just as swiftly withdrawn again.

"I'm sorry," France says, his voice subdued and thready. "I didn't... I apologise if I gave you the wrong impression. That wasn't why I invited you here tonight."

"Right," Wales says hurriedly. "Okay." _Of course not_. "I... The wine's just gone to my head. Wasn't really thinking."

France's nod is vague but accepting, though he doesn't seem inclined to add more until Wales asks him, in slight desperation to move on as quickly as possible from the shame of his terrible misstep, "Why _did_ you invite me, anyway?"

France opens his mouth as if to answer, but after looking around the restaurant, and no doubt noting that every other table around them is now filled, he shakes his head. "Not here," he says, beckoning for their waiter. "I think you and I should go for a walk."


	2. Chapter 2

The physical shock of stepping from the close confines of the restaurant into the chill of the evening air outside clears most of the muggy, alcoholic fog from Wales' brain. He finds it bracing.

France, on the other hand, looks as miserable as a drenched cat about the sudden plunge in temperature. He grimaces, and bodily folds in on himself, as though trying to protect whatever heat might remain at his core.

For some reason - Wales suspects, perhaps unkindly, that preserving the crisp lines of his suit may have been his aim - he hasn't brought any kind of overcoat with him, despite knowing full well, surely, that London is not exactly blessed with balmy nights.

Wales considers lending him his own coat, but only very fleetingly. Wales' own coat is fast approaching its twentieth birthday, thinning now at the elbows, and years past what should have been its natural retirement. France probably couldn't bring himself touch it, never mind wear it.

He instead tentatively offers his crooked arm for France to take, expecting it to be rebuffed given the misguided way he'd reacted to France's closeness earlier.

But France proves him uncharitable twice over, by first taking his arm without hesitation, and then curling his fingers into the rough, balding fabric of his duffle coat sleeve.

"So," France says, "where should we walk to?"

"There isn't somewhere you want to go?" Wales asks, surprised. France has never struck him as someone who walks for pleasure, and he'd presumed, then, that he'd had a particular destination in mind from the start.

France, though, shakes his head. "I don't much care," he says. "You choose."

It's a little after nine, now, and the streets will doubtless be throng with people pouring out of restaurants and spilling into pubs and bars. Hardly conducive to intimate conversation, so Wales decides to head to the nearest park.

France keeps pace with him both easily and silently, his gaze never deviating from the pavement beneath his feet. He looks up only when they reach the park and pass by a bench, whereupon, even though they can't have been walking for much more than ten minutes or so, he urges Wales to stop and rest awhile.

He seats himself close enough to Wales that the round of his shoulder and jut of his hip are touch against Wales'; warm points of pressure that Wales does his best to ignore by doggedly attempting to manufacture an interest in their surroundings.

Unfortunately, there's very little to see. The park is lit by a sparse smattering of anaemic streetlights, and whatever landscaping would serve to catch the eye in daytime is reduced to a series of ill-defined, twilight-hued lumps, their fuzzy edges the only indication that they might be vegetation of some kind.

The windows of the tall buildings that surround the park are all dark, most likely office buildings that had been abandoned for the day long since, leaving the area deserted until they open their doors again in the morning. The only sign of life anywhere in the immediate vicinity is the low, rumbling sound of cars passing along a road nearby but out of sight.

So Wales sits and stares very hard at nothing in particular whilst France shivers beside him and says nothing. It's probably not the most productive use of the evening for either of them, but as Wales' only alternative is an early return to England's home and the attendant third degree from his brother that is sure to await him there, he's in no rush to move and has no incentive to hurry France along.

Eventually, his patience is rewarded by a murmured question from his companion. "I presume you've heard that Scotland and I have... parted ways?"

And if his misstep in the restaurant earlier hadn't so effectively lowered his expectations, he would likely have read entirely the wrong thing into it. Every cloud, etc. "I have."

"And did..." France shifts away from Wales and then back again, settling even closer than before. "I don't suppose he told you why?"

Wales laughs. He can't help himself. "He didn't tell me _anything_ , _Ffrainc_. I had to hear it from _Lloegr_ , and the only reason he knows anything is because he happened to be there when _Yr Alban_ was pissed enough to run his mouth off about it."

"Oh," France breathes, quiet and clearly disappointed. "I was hoping you might be able to shed some more light on the matter."

"He didn't tell _you_ , either?" Wales asks, a little surprised but far from incredulous. He would have hoped otherwise for his brother's sake, but it comes as no real shock that Scotland's as tight-lipped with France about such things as he is with everyone else.

"He didn't say much, and what he _did_ say..." France shrugs. "It reeked of desperation. Deceit."

Wales can't imagine that of his brother. Whilst Scotland does lie, he's as subtle about it as a sledgehammer to the face. He's hardly blessed with an overabundance of either tact or guile. "What makes you think that?"

"Because he told me that he wanted more than we had. And that he loves me. He wanted more _because_ he loves me."

Wales waits, expecting France to add more, but as the moment stretches long, it seems that, incredibly, that is the beginning and the end of it.

"And what part of that don't you believe?" he asks.

"All of it," France snaps. "He's never given me any... The only time he'd said those words to me before, I was the one trying to walk away and he was drunk, raving, trying anything and everything to keep me from leaving." His top lip curls disdainfully. "One last ditch attempt to keep me trapped where he'd always had me: dangling on a string, thinking that..."

He trails off into ragged, hitching breaths, and Wales sits frozen in his silence, trying to reconcile the Scotland he knows with the one of France's recollections. The one who, apparently, is manipulative enough to pretend affection and use it as a weapon. His head aches with the effort. It's impossible.

"But he does love you, _Ffrainc_ ," he says, gently but very firmly, as there's very little in life he can be more certain of.

France snorts. "In the beginning, perhaps I might have taken you at your word, _Pays de Galles_ , but it's been many years since he showed me any... any real passion. If he never shows it, never speaks of it, how am I supposed to believe it exists?"

The implications of that as regards his brother's - apparently unsatisfying - sex life are too horrifying to contemplate, and Wales' mind gracefully glides past them, latching instead onto the part he does feel qualified and able to comment upon.

"That's just how _Yr Alban_ is," he says. "He's not very good at... Well, at emotions, really. Or expressing them. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel them, though."

For a moment, France looks almost hopeful, but his expression quickly sours into despondency again. "I've always known that he finds it difficult to be open about such things, but I can't believe that _anyone_ could be so self-contained that they'd be capable of hiding every trace of them away for _centuries_."

Perhaps it's the defeat Wales can hear in France's voice, or perhaps the alchol still lingering in his bloodstream, but Wales suddenly feels compelled to share his own tightly-held, centuries' old secret.

"Oh, _Yr Alban_ 's fully capable of it, believe me," Wales says, and though those words were easy enough to say, he soon loses that sense of rightness, and has to force out the rest past the tight knot of mingled tension and humiliation that grows in his chest. "I know that first hand."

"How so?" France's voice is thankfully free of the salacious undertones that Wales had feared it might hold, and that gives him all the courage he needs to continue.

"You can't tell anyone this, especially not _Yr Alban_ , because he doesn't remember any of it now." After France nods to seal the promise, Wales takes a deep, steadying breath and continues with: "Before we were Cymru and Scotland, back when I was Gwynedd, and he was... part of him was Pictland, he... Do you remember Pictland?"

France closes his eyes, his brow wrinkling, as he loses himself in deep thought, presumably trying to pick through the tangled, fragmentary memories that are all most of them have left of the long-dissolved kingdoms that came before them. "I think so," he says at length. "A little."

"I remember more, because I changed less, and I know that... Well, apparently he was in love with me - with Gwynedd - for centuries, too, and he never breathed a word of it. Took it to his grave. And I never even suspected it; he never gave me the slightest hint that he felt that way."

France stares blankly down at the ground for a time, and then up, sly and sidelong at Wales. "And yet both you and he were always so vehemently opposed to the idea of joining me in bed together."

"Of course we fucking were," Wales says, just as vehement as he'd been on any of those occassions. "He's not Pictland anymore, he's Scotland, he's my brother, and I... I might not have changed so much, but I did change, and..." And France is smiling slightly, the curl of his lips light and teasing. "And you know all this already, I'm sure. The thing is, though, _Ffrainc_ , Scotland may be different now, but there's enough of Pictland in him that I know he... Well, I'm pretty sure that however he's acted, whatever he's said to you - or hasn't said - it's quite possible it doesn't mean what you think it does."

France answers by laying his hand over Wales' where it's resting on his thigh, and squeezing it gently. Wales can't be sure whether it's in gratitude or simple acknowledgment, but what is clear is that France's fingers are ice cold.

After that, Wales has no room left to be embarrassed about his revelation, or any regret for sharing it, beside the concern that France might be one shiver away from developing hypothermia. "Fucking hell, _Ffrainc_ , you're freezing," he says, fumbling, one-handed, at the first toggle of his coat. "Here, you can take my coat."

The curled lip returns. "No, please keep it, _Pays de Galles_ ," France says hurriedly. "I'll be fine."

As this last is said through chattering teeth, Wales very much doubts that. He glances at his watch. Past ten o'clock; should be safe enough.

He flips his hand beneath France's, grips it tight. "England will be tucked up with a cup of cocoa by now," he says, getting to his feet and pulling France up after him, "and he still hasn't got out of the habit of wearing earplugs to bed yet. We can go back to his, and be nice and warm when you tell me whatever else it is you need to say."  
-

* * *

 **-  
Notes:**  
 _... This is one of the main reasons I moved Vanished to FtF. I really wanted France and Wales to have this conversation!_


	3. Chapter 3

Despite acting as though the very existence of coffee in the world is a personal insult to him and everything he stands for whenever he's offered a cup of the stuff, England does keep a jar of it in his kitchen.

It's supermarket own brand instant, skating perilously close to its best-before date, so not particularly _good_ coffee, but as Wales has no intention of serving it as is, he thinks it will probably be _good enough_ , even to suit France's rarefied tastes.

The whisky he intends to add to it is of a far finer pedigree, even if England does keep it in the same cupboard as his tinned tomatoes, alongside the cheap, astringent wine and sherry he uses for cooking, instead of allowing it pride of place in the drinks cabinet in his parlour. It's Scotland's favourite, produced by a pinprick tiny distillery in the arse end of the Highlands, and usually the bottle he buys England for Christmas will last practically untouched from one to the next as their brother insists it's nigh-on undrinkable.

This bottle, however, only has about a tumbler full of whisky remaining in it, and a skimpy tumbler, at that. Wales adds a splash of it to his own coffee, and the rest to France's, reasoning that France likely needs it more at this point, because he looks even more morose than he did at the park and insists he's still frozen through to the marrow.

England doesn't have any brown sugar, just white, and only milk and not cream, so the drink that results is a pretty poor excuse for Irish coffee all round. Wales apologises for that when he goes joins France in the living room and hands him the mug, but judging by the way France greedily guzzles it down, he doesn't much care.

Wales takes a far more cautious sip of his own. It's mouth-shrivellingly bitter, even with the sugar. France probably had the right idea by downing it.

It certainly seems to have done him the world of good, returning the colour to his cheeks and a spark of life to his glassy eyes. When he sinks back amongst the lumpy cushions of England's creaky and decrepit sofa, it's with a pleased-sounding groan that only someone who was otherwise pretty comfortable with their situation could possibly muster up the enthusiasm for.

"Could I have another?" he then asks, which suggests the first cup was strong enough to obliterate some of his good sense alongside his taste buds.

"Not unless you want to chance the cooking sherry," Wales says. "There isn't any more whisky. _Yr Alban_ must have polished off most of it when he visited the other week. _Lloegr_ can't stand the stuff."

France wrinkles his nose. "For once, I'll have to agree with _Angleterre_. I think it might be even worse than the coffee."

"Don't let _Yr Alban_ hear you say that. He'd be crushed."

"There's little chance of that." France heaves a somewhat melodramatic-sounding sigh. "Scotland is refusing to speak to me. I've called many times, even sent him a letter for the first time since... I cannot remember when. He doesn't answer."

"And you... What? Want to try and talk him 'round?" Wales guesses. "Win him back?"

France rolls his shoulders a little. Even for a shrug, it's pretty indecisive. "Not at first. I only wanted a better explanation for his behaviour than the one he'd given me. But now...?" His next sigh sounds much more genuine; rough and exasperated. "Perhaps? Even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I know it wouldn't change anything. I've known that for centuries, and yet, here I am. I should have walked away again after the Great War; I very nearly did, but—"

France cuts himself off abruptly, his lips twisting into a grimace. His colour rises, his breathing quickens, and, despite everything, Wales' first instinct is still to hurry to his side, sling an arm around his shoulders and draw him into a hug.

A couple of millennia's worth of cuffs, slaps, and snarled insults have served to make him doubtful of his instincts in such circumstances, however, so he simply sits, hands wrung anxiously together on his lap, and asks, "Are you okay?"

"Possibly not," France says ruefully. "I'm giving the cooking sherry serious consideration."

If his straits really are that dire, Wales is more than willing to forego his own - somewhat dubious - pleasure in consequence. He passes France his half-drunk coffee, which France also gulps back as though it's foul-tasting medicine that he's forcing down for the good of his health.

"I thought I was centuries past _this_ , too," France says afterwards, tapping the now-empty mug against his sternum. "The worrying. Wondering where I stand with him; what to make of him. I thought I'd gone in with my eyes open this time, at least. And we _both_ agreed at the start that we wouldn't make it any more than it was."

"Which was?" Wales is curious enough to ask, although he doesn't really expect France to reply. Scotland has never put a name to his relationship with France, and has assiduously avoided even talking about it since the turn of the twentieth century.

"Comfortable." France's laughter has a slight bitter tinge to it. "Just two... Two friends enjoying each other's company when the fancy took them and their circumstances aligned. Because we know each other well in some ways, if, clearly, not in others. It wasn't supposed to be anything more. We both had other lovers, and—"

"Scotland did?" Wales hadn't meant to interject, but he's shocked enough that he can't stop himself from blurting out the question, regardless. "Really?"

"Of course," France says bluntly and without hesitation, as though it's something which should be self-evident. "Does that surprise you?"

"Frankly, yes," Wales says. "I haven't seen him with anyone else since... Since Jersey, I guess."

"That ended before the Napoleonic Wars did, _Pays de Galles_ ," France says, and there's a hint of pity in his tone. Wales cannot tell if it's directed towards him, for being niave enough to believe such an ostensibly outlandish thing about his brother, or that France thinks he's speaking the truth, and thus it's directed towards Scotland, instead.

Wales very much hopes that it's the former, as his brother would likely be horrified that he could rouse such a sentiment in France. Just as horrified as he would be if he knew that Wales was talking about his private life behind his back, at all.

So Wales laughs it off; plays at ignorance. "Well, he could have ten people on the go right now, for all I know. As I said before, it's not as if he speaks about things like that. It's like talking to a brick wall most of the time. I'd probably have to break out the thumbscrews to get him to admit to what his favourite colour is, never mind anything else."

France smiles faintly. "And yet you were so certain about his feelings for me."

"I was," Wales says. "I am." Scotland might never have said it outright, but Wales knows his brother, and, when it comes to France, the way he looks, the way he acts, and even the specific silences he keeps, speak volumes, and always have. "He _loves_ you. Has done since we were children."

"And when I was younger, little would have made me happier than to believe you, but I put that hope aside a long time ago. I don't know if I want to go looking for it again. I don't know if I _can._ Besides, Scotland seemed adamant that he was no longer interested in pursuing any sort of relationship with me, even if what you say is true."

"I think he could probably be persuaded to change his mind," Wales says, and he's just as certain about that as the rest. "If you went about it the right way."

France's interest looks to be piqued, but only very briefly. He soon shakes his head and sinks back amongst the sofa's unyielding cushions, the arc of his back slumping defeatedly. "I don't know, _Pays de Galles_. He's disappointed me so many times before, I'm not sure if I have it in me to give him the benefit of the doubt again."

His face seems to slump, too, his eyebrows drooping low as he closes his eyes. He looks exhausted, and also a little sick; the acrid coffee and whisky no doubt sitting very uneasily alongside the rich food and wine they'd shared earlier in the evening.

This time, Wales does let his intsinct guide him, and leans forward to take hold of one of France's hands. "You don't have to decide anything now. I'll be here, whenever you want to talk about it again, but why don't you sleep on it for a while, see how you feel, then." He slowly pulls France to his feet, careful not to jolt him along the way. "But not here. _Lloegr_ wouldn't be best pleased to find you passed out here first thing in the morning. Come on, I'll make you up a bed."  
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* * *

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- **Notes:** _So... After the end of this, France sleeps on things a few more times, and after getting drunk in the rain (see: Science and Practice), ultimately decides to take Wales up on his offer. Wales then advises him to try back into Scotland's good graces with, amongst other things, whisky (good idea) and poetry (not so good)._


End file.
